


Lay Down In The Tall Grass

by kinkyhux



Series: With Thoughts Beyond the Reaches of Our Souls [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Hannibal, Dom/sub Undertones, Early in Canon, Emotional Sex, Emotional Slow Burn, French Speaking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Tenderness, realistic sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinkyhux/pseuds/kinkyhux
Summary: Work, sex, and curiosity. Will and Hannibal explore a new version of themselves and their lives.





	

 

 

 

> _**i** dreamt you **found** me out in a field..._  
>  _**you** dug me **out** of this shallow grave..._  
>  _only you could revive me, so badly decomposed_  
>  _i was bore white, dry, and scaly; but you still took me home..._
> 
> Taylor Kirk

* * *

 

 

 

The apartment was a studio of cold, cream walls and a tall ceiling. A flowery, bare mattress sat upon a rose wood bed frame lying before large, three panel windows. A bedside table and a bookshelf of the same color resided on either side. Any other furniture must have been removed to make room for the display. It was a large area, ceiling fan centered in the square room. Other than decay, the studio smelled of potpourri and had subtle characteristics of a modernized Victoria. Will Graham took a deep breath and said, "He's not a prostitute. This is staged." Jack crossed his arms as if he didn't already believe him. "The killer is… What would they call them? _Dandy_?"

Jack frowned. "You mean he's performing?"

It had been a month since anything worthwhile had crossed the wires. Jack was desperate for a case, desperate for a release from monotony and boredom. Will could feel it, like some muddled aura.

Will straightened his back, hairs on his body standing. "He's watching us. Search for a camera." Suddenly everyone in the room were fish out of water. Will stayed still and felt like he was drowning.

Jack looked the most disappointed when the only word uttered was, "Nothing."

"No,  there has to be something," Will insisted. He frantically searched under couch cushions and in the lamps, filed through the bookshelf three people had already gone through. Price only just prevented him from diving into the fish tank, which curiously sat on the kitchen counter, the fish idling around among its own filth.

"Will, give it up," Beverly said. Her voice was soft, but it still hurt. "Even if there was a camera, there's no guarantee it would lead us to him.”

“No, you’re wrong.” Will felt his ears go hot with frustration as she crossed her arms. "If there is one, it means he either intends to return to the crime scene, or he has it connected to a computer or his phone."

Silence and stillness fell on everyone.

"There’s a camera in his mouth." A nameless forensic said, too loud for the state of the room. He was the only one tall enough to have noticed without a ladder.

“Or he’s mocking us,” Zeller offered as he scanned the mattress for bodily fluids, hair, anything with DNA.

“Why do you say that?” Jack asked.

“Maybe it’s not connected to anything, and he just put it there to further exploit his motive.”

Will walked out to the hall to clear his head. The third time he'd been right about something no one believed in one day.

"Fingerprints!" Someone shouted. Will thought he should be glad. Instead, he called Dr. Lecter.

_"Hello, Mr. Graham. Is everything alright?"_

“Could I come in early?"

_"Your appointment is only in two hours."_

"I know. It's just, I really need to talk."

Hannibal paused, paper shuffled. Will breathed out heavily and ran his hand over his face. _"Drive safely."_

He found Hannibal’s office comfortable. It might have been more so than his own home if he were to live in it for years, but it was impersonal, vague. Dark, but in an incidental way. It was homely, but at the same time reminded one of where they were, who they were with. Hannibal was quite like that himself.

“Not impersonal, then.”

“Pardon?” Hannibal graciously provided him with a blank face, emotionless eyes, and only a slight frown in his brows.

“Do you know who you are, Dr. Lecter?”

“I know myself as I am now,” he replied after a pause. “I know who I used to be. One could argue they know their past selves more than they will ever understand their present selves.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever known myself.” Will remembered being a little boy, quiet and timid. Three friends, loyal friends. Things were simple. He didn’t have a self yet to know.

Hannibal, as seemed par for the course, questioned him expertly. “Do you believe you have ever changed?”

“In the way of maturity, certainly. I’m not sure about my personality or...any of that.”

The room grew cold suddenly, briefly. He could see their breath clouding in the air. When he blinked, it was gone. His skin prickled as if he’d entered a warm room after being in the snow.

“Then you have known at least one of your selves. The extent of this knowledge is not important. It’s a start.”

He found it easier to argue than to accept defeat. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Considering your line of work, it may be in your best interest. A better question would be: why _don’t_ you want to know yourself? Isn’t that the goal-- the triumph of life? Young people travel the whole world to understand themselves, to find their purpose. You gather dogs and catch murderers.”

“I also fish.” Except you couldn’t empathize with fish. Dogs, sure. And psychopaths.

Hannibal stood. “You are too kind to be so cold, Will.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“I would never intentionally insult you unless I meant it.”

Will smiled. Hannibal was at once everything Will needed and loathed. “You always get what you need, don’t you?” He asked no one in particular. “Even if it’s something you hate.”

“How was the crime scene?” Hannibal asked, leaning against his desk. Will paced in front of him slowly.

“Young man was beheaded and...castrated in his apartment.” Will left out the fact that his head was hung from the ceiling fan, which spun in bursts from the weight until they turned it off. Semen had dripped from his chin, tinted pink with blood, onto his pale, degraded body below. It was his own.

“And what of the killer?”

Will didn’t want to talk about the killer. “He thinks it’s a performance.”

“It seems you always get the creative ones.”

Will climbed the ladder and watched the books as he passed. Art analysis, anatomy diagrams, a series of _For Dummies_ stacked next to Homer and sheet music. “He left a camera at the scene. There’ll be police there in case he returns for it.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Hannibal's lip quirked. 

“Then the show goes on.” Arms outstretched, leaning over the edge of the railing, Will felt both ridiculous and clever. Hannibal smiled back at him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Will liked to watch himself masturbate. (Less narcissism and more auto-eroticism, however, wholly unfortunate.) He’d considered talking to Dr. Lecter about it, but he could never find the words. It didn’t seem prudent.

He had a large mirror, which he set against the headboard, a rectangle of crystal clear glass framed by bright white. He could see nearly the entirety of his bedroom, dark and cold, but it cut off where his head hung. It wasn’t about the way he looked, but what he looked like. He enjoyed feeling like someone else--like one of those twenty-somethings who videotaped themselves getting off and sent them to people for money, or posted it on the internet for attention, validation. He would never do that. He didn’t even own a video camera. But if they could just _see_ him, the things he was willing to do to feel something, to be alive and numb at once, to feel breathless from nothing and thoughtless from everything...

He came with a quiet breath. He could be loud, used to be. Used to make the men he slept with in college orgasm from just the right sound; from knowing they were drawing a vocal embodiment of his pleasure straight from Will’s hot, wet, generous mouth.

When he was alone, there was no giving, only taking. Unlike his voice, powerless echoing back to him, the reflection before him held a sensuality that _belonged_ _to him_ ; that he took, and took, and took. Maybe there was a fantasy to it, but it wasn't uninteresting.

He left the mirror on the bed and longed to shower it all away. He had less than an hour before Hannibal would pick him up, so he opted for a wet cloth and an extra spray of an old body mist, label worn to the point of illegibility.

Hannibal was on the phone with someone when Will climbed into the passenger’s seat. The Bentley Arnage smelled of wood and, faintly, fire. Will stared at the dashboard, the time on the clock.

“J’ai besoin de votre appui.” Hannibal eyed him and turned back to the steering wheel. “Désolé, mais je dois vous rappeler ce soir.  Donnez mon amour à Camille, s'il vous plaît. Bonsoir.”

“You speak French?” Will asked.

Hannibal regarded his confused expression. “Not as well as I used to.”

He frowned. “Who was that?”.

“An old friend.”

“An old friend who you...need something from?”

“ _Je besoin de votre appui._ I need your support.”

“What could you need support for?

“You often forget I’m human.”

The drive to the crime scene was long. Three hours on the highway lay before them. The winter was rainy and heavy, softening what little sun managed to shine through. Will rested his head against the window and listened to the hum of the car, the windshield wipers brushing drizzled rain away, and Hannibal's light breathing next to him.

“Are you in a relationship?” Hannibal asked. The only other car on the road, ahead of them by a few meters, was Jack Crawford’s. He was driving slower than he should have been. Perhaps in case his special pet got lost.

Will’s eyes drifted to roadkill, guts splattered like paint on the road, and his stomach twisted in guilt briefly. “Excuse me?”

“Forgive me, but you smell of sex. I was hoping you hadn’t left your partner alone after intimacy.”

Will’s chest grew tight in embarrassment.

Hannibal paused for too long and sucked in a sharp, enlightened breath. “There’s no shame in being alone, Will.”

“This is not something I want to chat about.”

“May we speak professionally, then?”

Will snorted. “If there’s anything to _learn_ from my sex life, you’ll be writing a paper on the effects of loneliness on sperm production by tomorrow.”

Hannibal paused. Hannibal always thought carefully before he spoke, cautious of...what? “Are you lonely?”

Will despised Hannibal’s soft, "therapist" tone of voice. It pulled him inside out. “I don’t know.”

“What do you think about when you masturbate?”

“I don’t know.”

Hannibal smirked, as if he already knew the answer and because he did. “Yes, you do.”

_If Hannibal knows everything, why is he so careful?_

“Nothing,” Will said. “Everything. I don't know.”

When Will was in school, he used sex like other people used drugs. He used drugs, too, but it was always about getting off, there was always a goal. It was the only thing that felt real to him, and he thought it was the best way to ground himself while his head went elsewhere. It wasn't like Will regretted his choices, he just wished it didn't have to be a part of his life. His life, which up until about a year ago, felt like a lucid dream; a cookie-cutter, Streetcar Named Desire, vodka on the rocks dream. Nothing special, and maybe a little fucked up, but normal. His kind of normal, living comfortably in the mist.

The rain grew heavier. Will felt like he was being stoned, chest hot and tight. He pressed his thumb into his phone idly and when the rain cleared up, he watched as Hannibal turned off the windshield wipers and settled behind Jack's car at a red light. Hannibal seemed content with whatever Will had given him, professional curiosity satisfied. However, it only lasted as long as it took will to admit, "I'm not ill-equipped," and then start when he realized how it sounded. "Knowledge-wise, I mean."

“Are you partial to anything?” Hannibal stopped the car at a red light and looked over.

“Myself.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I won’t give you a laundry list of my sexual preferences.” Will knew he sounded defensive.

“Have you experienced sexual trauma?”

Will rolled his eyes. “Sex _is_ trauma. I like it better when it's not... _involved_.” The light turned green, and Hannibal dropped the subject.

 

 

* * *

 

  

Will performed open heart surgery on a day-to-day basis. The cardiovascular system was a diagram for social affairs. Each vein was a conversation; comprising of only those topics appropriate for the event, the company, and the time of day, of course. The blood pumping and retreating through each vein was the content of the conversations.

Will had yet to draw connections directly to the heart. A highly praised, authentic Hannibal dinner party seemed as good a place as any to find one.

He clung to Hannibal’s side like a nameless fifth wife. He hated every second of it, but couldn’t pursue a more comfortable alternative to friendliness. Hannibal’s colleagues and friends looked like fifth wives, too, but without their husbands. The independent wine mothers without children--without a care in the world--who spoke tiredly of their dull, high class lives.

The guests went through champagne and h'orderves like a forest fire, dinner following soon enough. Hannibal made a toast, but Will did not listen. He looked at all of the food on the table. _What does conversation rely on and create? Culture? Insecurity?_

“It is entirely crass of me to be thankful of company in today’s society, where companionship can be held in your pocket,” Hannibal began. Will thought he’d had better things to say when talking to his dogs, but everyone laughed with him. “But it truly is a pleasure to be surrounded by intuitive, open minds tonight.” Hannibal turned to Will and finished, “To the pleasure of closeness, and the comfort one may find in it.”

Will raised his glass. _Society relies on conversation, conversation creates society. It only changes when a new vein is introduced. That, or when an old vein is opened and bled dry._

The food was delicious. Will couldn’t taste it, but he knew.

Mingling before the night was over was easier. People had less to say, and therefore said less. Will nursed a cup of coffee and Hannibal watched him discuss fishing with an enthusiastic elderly man, who had moved on to someone else’s vein when Hannibal asked, “Are you alright, Will?”

“I’d like to sit down,” he said. “Somewhere quiet. Empty.”

“If you’ll wait in my study, I’ll end the event and meet you there.”

“You’ll be an hour.” Will was leaning into him, close enough to smell him.

“You’d be surprised. Many of these people will be glad to have an excuse to go home, just like you. The weight of social obligation extends beyond those who are bad at it, or those who tire easily.”

Will sighed and rested a hand on his elbow. “I may fall asleep if you take too long.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Will started a fire and felt resourceful. Would Hannibal really end a party so abruptly, just because Will needed space? He also needed Hannibal, who would be unavailable if the dinner continued. Guilt fell over him in waves. Will was always getting the special treatment, like a deserted child picked up by a wealthy, overly compassionate family of outcasts and overachievers. He looked at some of Hannibal's artwork and clicked his tongue. 

His head began growing dizzy, and so he sat on the floor, finding it easier to relax there, just before the fire. Hannibal would scowl; his suit was nice.

"A drink?" Hannibal asked upon his return, skipping the scowl in favor of concern.

Will turned, waving his hand and resting it back around his knees. "My coffee is fine, thank you."

"Your coffee is cold. Here," he held out crystal with a dark liqueur, "this should warm you up."

Will smiled and hung his head. "Alcohol imitates warmth, it doesn't actually create it."

"And yet people still reach for bottles before blankets." After one more nod of Hannibal's hand, Will reached up and took the glass from it. He drank it all in a few gulps. Hannibal poured his own, and then another for Will. A few more, and Will felt better.

He watched Hannibal take off his jacket and vest, revealing pale silk and a dark tie. He loosened the tie and rolled up his sleeves. The buttons of Will's jacket dug into his stomach because of the way he curled in on himself. He felt tiny, like a ship in a bottle, watching Hannibal do something on his desk through blue-tinted glass.

"What do you think about when you look at me?" Hannibal asked softly.

Will thought about rain on his back, hair leaking cold rivers over his face, and Hannibal's hands on him, peeling every layer away. The feeling of a knife on his throat. Hannibal's breath cold down his neck. Low, blue lights flashing. A cold bed in the middle of still, dark water.

He imagined Hannibal moving his hands into the pleasured curve of Will's back as if he were Pygmalion's statue, ivory stained black. Music rolling sweetly in the background, shaped in a cacophonous tremble under their feet. The feeling of teeth on his neck, blood in his hands, cum on his cheek.

Hannibal looked at him like he was _something_ , the eighth wonder, a grand structure on the verge of collapse. Will felt like the mud on his shoes, dirty and forgotten on the rug by the door.

"I think about you," Will answered simply, though he had so much to say, to take. "What about you? What do you think when you see me?"

Hannibal's response was immediate. "Something I'd like to mess up and put back together again, though I cannot touch it, it's behind glass."

"That's oddly specific."

"You're not...ordinary enough for an ordinary answer."

"And that's reassuring." Will stood and set the glass next to Hannibal on the desk. Hannibal was sketching a hand. "That isn't," he mumbled, and then Hannibal turned to face him, swivel chair creaking quietly. Will looked down at him, at the softness in his eyes above the sharp lines of his face.

Falling into Hannibal's lap was the hard part. Immediately, Hannibal held him like he might slip through the space between his fingers. Will was breathing fast, heart thumping brightly in his chest. They breathed each other's air, silent, eyes searching. "Will..."

"No more glass, Hannibal. Touch me."

They kissed. Will pressed the line of his torso forward, clinging to Hannibal like rain. Hannibal's hand rested in Will's hair, waiting for the moment to pull his head back and expose his neck, where he placed wet lips and teeth. Will moaned, but not for Hannibal. That's not what he needed. Hannibal needed tangible flesh, pliant heat. Hannibal needed things Will could only offer in the abstract.

Will moaned his name like prayer, like some deep fire was burning. He ground his hips down, forcing pressure and friction in just the right way. He felt dirty and new at once, changed in the right ways and himself in the rest.

Will's back met the desk with a thud, followed by paper floating and metal clanging, all to its resting place on the floor. Hannibal kissed the questions from his mouth, sucked the shame and fear from his tongue. Hannibal, somewhat frantically, undid Will's belt and slid down his pants.

"Fuck," Will said as he watched Hannibal's hand wrap around his cock and stroke him to completion. It ended too quickly, but Hannibal kept touching him, his nerves on edge until he had to lift himself from the desk and whisper, "How about you?"

Hannibal remained silent, and instead pulled Will from the desk and kissed what little breath remained from him. Will found his way onto his knees, a different kind of need swelling in his chest.

Having his mouth on Hannibal's cock was like cradling power in his hands, trapping it between his teeth. He found one of Hannibal's hands and pulled it toward his hair, curled their fingers together. Hannibal tugged and Will moaned, fell into rhythm. There was something rectifying about sucking dick that Will never understood, a kind of generosity that settled any unease within him. People were always doing things for him, worried about him, swaddling him in care and protection.

Hannibal tasted good, smelled good, felt so good. Like righting a wrong, solving a puzzle.

Hannibal pulled out and made a soft sound as he came, which was only underwhelming, but Will still felt heavy with satisfaction as come fell onto his hands.

Will leaned against the leg of the desk, curled in the shadow that fell on him. Hannibal was getting a few tissues, attempting to restore order. Will turned into the cool wood and shivered.

"I'd like you to stay," Hannibal said.

Will took a deep breath. "Can't. Dogs."

"Of course."

"Best if we don't...make things complicated," Will said, though he wasn't sure what he meant by it.

Hannibal laughed, short and quiet. "What do you suppose this is?"

"Right."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments/kudos appreciated! :-)


End file.
